Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations —changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Hey, Mr. DJ: I sat across the table from you last night while you wowed our little company of men and women with tales from your rock-star life. Drinking binges. Anonymous sex. Distant travel. Money. Cars. Recording contracts. Other famous DJs. You'll say I'm just jealous, but let me point out something anyhow: you never once talked about art. And my several questions about your aesthetic only led you to elaborate on your promiscuity, drunkenness and disloyalty. Your art is your artless self. I expect that some women are really knocked over by stories in which you have sex with one woman while thinking of another, but I wanted to retch in the bushes. Here's what's going on in one woman's mind while you're talking: "He's an alcoholic . . . with a drug and sex problem . . . who hates women . . . can't handle money . . . doesn't understand music . . . has the soul of a mule . . . preens like an adolescent girl . . . Oh, hell, he just shook my hand. . . . Time to excuse myself to go wash up in the women's room." What a delightful evening. Thanks for the look into a heart of absolute darkness. It was better than Blair Witch.